


Daughters of Wolves and Winter

by SilenceIsGolden15



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Our way is the old way, Past Abuse, Post-Canon, Queen in the North, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 09:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19104361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceIsGolden15/pseuds/SilenceIsGolden15
Summary: All is done, their enemies are gone, but Sansa still sees shadows in the corners of Winterfell.





	Daughters of Wolves and Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhhh hi, I also watch game of thrones. Enjoy I guess?

The fire crackled merrily in the fireplace. The death of the Night King didn’t stop winter, and soon they would feel the pressure of it, but for now all was warm and safe within the walls of Winterfell. 

Sitting across from each other, Arya and Sansa sat together, quietly attending to their own activities. Arya lovelingly sharpened Needle while Sansa embroidered the edges of her coronation gown; the event was set for three weeks from then, and Arya’s voyage was set for two. Arya regretted that she couldn’t attend, and Sansa did too, but she didn’t worry very much about it. They’d more than proven that they could find a way back to each other if they had to.

No, that wasn’t what was on Sansa’s mind. But something was-- shadows followed along the stitches of her needle, tangling in the thread and sinking into the cloth. She’d never had time before to worry about such a ridiculous matter, but with both Cersei and the Night King gone, she now had room for little things like honor and tradition. 

And the question was devouring her. 

“Arya,” she said suddenly, letting her stitching fall limply into her lap.

“Yes?” Arya didn’t look up, still dragging her whetstone along the blade. In the firelight, with her brown hair and her sword, she looked so much like their father. The memory only made the shadows deeper. 

“Did Jon ever tell you about Ramsey?”

“The Bolton bastard? He did.” Her expression darkened a little, a passing storm in a calm sky as she added, “He’s lucky he died before I got here.”

That made a smile quirk the edges of Sansa’s lips, which made the next sentence come a little easier.

“And did he tell you how he died?”

This made Arya look up. There was a question in her eyes, but for now it remained unvoiced. 

“Yes. Why?”

Sansa’s eyes fell back to the dress she was working on. Her breath was a shudder in her chest. 

“It’s just… Father always said the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. And I didn’t.” Now that it was out in the air it sounded ridiculous, and she almost retracted the statement, but Arya didn’t look like she agreed. Her face was entirely solemn. 

“Father also said ladies shouldn’t have swords.” 

She pressed her lips together in annoyance. “You know what I mean, Arya. I didn’t follow the Northern way.” 

Arya set her whetstone aside and sat forward. “But you did, Sansa. Father said the man who passes the sentence should look into the man's eyes and hear his final words. Did you do that?”

Slowly, Sansa nodded. Arya looked grimly satisfied. “That is the Northern way. You’re a true lady, you learned how to dominate in Southern politics and you look more like Mother than Father, that’s all true. But you’re a Northerner, too.” 

Sansa spun her needle between her finger and her thumb for a moment, contemplating. Arya’s words made sense, but still doubt festered in her chest. When the other armies had been in Winterfell she’d heard whispers-- cruel whispers, but none had ever passed the lips of a Northerner. 

“That’s true, but… maybe the way I did it was a little… extreme.”

Arya scoffed. “What, feeding him to his dogs? He deserved it.”

“Maybe I should’ve kept him prisoner, until we could do a proper execution--”

“You know I killed Walder Frey, right?”

Surprised, Sansa glanced away from her needle and over at Arya. She’d returned to her whetstone, but her eyes still glittered. 

“Yes, I know that.”

“Do you know how I did it?”

“...No.” Sansa arched an inviting brow. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Well, first I killed his sons.” Her tone was nonchalant, as though they were discussing what their dinner was going to be that night or how deep the snow would get. “Then I took the face of a kitchen wench, hacked their bodies up, baked them into a pie and fed it to Lord Frey.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She didn’t have time to decide how she felt about it before Arya was continuing. 

“Then I slit his throat, took  _ his  _ face, and poisoned the rest of his family.”

“Oh,” was all Sansa could say. 

“But I still did it right. I looked into their eyes and heard their final words. And then I killed them.” She looked up, her jaw clenched. “I didn’t chop off their heads like Father and Robb and Jon. But I still did it the Northern way. The North lives on in us the same way it did in them. I have the wildness of wolves and you’re as ruthless as the winter. And together we took back our home.”

A smile fought its way onto Sansa’s face. The shadows were still there, lingering in the back of her mind, but they’d retreated from her coronation gown. The thread shone in the firelight like wolf fur. 

She resumed her sewing. Arya went back to her sword. And together they sat in content silence. 


End file.
